Reunited with the Cowboy by Carolyne Aarsen Page A

different at times.
    It seemed that over the years she had retained that ability. He still wasn’t sure what to make of her, or why he should care.

Chapter Five
    T he rain that had been forecast for tomorrow was introducing itself with a light drizzle that was already dripping off the roof, turning the leftover snow into slushy puddles.
    Heather pulled her hat—correction, Keira’s hat—lower over her forehead and hunched her shoulders against the sudden chill of the cooling air. Sugar was right on her heels as she walked out of the house.
    Their dog lived for this kind of work, Heather thought, taking a moment to pat the animal on the head.
    Heather herself? Not so much. As she followed John down the path, slipping on the mud the moisture had created, she had a few second thoughts about what she had done.
    But Alice’s comment, combined with John using her old nickname, had stiffened her resolve. Given her something to prove.
    â€œYou sure you want to do this?” he asked as she caught up to him. He glanced at her soft leather designer boots, which were the only ones she owned with the right heel for riding. “I didn’t think you’d want to get those dirty.”
    â€œThey’re all I brought, and Keira’s feet are smaller than mine. I think Mom threw my old boots out. I don’t care about these.”
    â€œSince when? You never even liked to get your pants dirty when you were helping,” he said.
    â€œAt least dirt washes off.”
    When John shot her a questioning look, Heather wished she had kept the cryptic comment to herself. She could guess what he was thinking. She always liked to look good. Her clothes were important to her.
    The past few years, however, she’d changed her priorities. Clothes didn’t matter as much, because she knew better what was really important.
    â€œI’ve got the cows gathered in four pens,” John said, as they got closer to the corrals, the noise of the bawling cows increasing with each step. “We’ve got to get your horse saddled up first. You still remember how?”
    Heather tried not to bristle at his question. It bothered her that he thought she had strayed that far from where she’d come.
    â€œLike riding a bike,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand.
    â€œI’ll get the needles and vaccine ready. You get Rowdy.”
    She gave him a quick nod, then left for the tack shed, Sugar trotting alongside her.
    The building was just around the corner, between the corrals and the barn. As she rolled open the heavy door and stepped inside the large shed, the achingly familiar smells of leather and oil and the pervasive scent of horse washed over her. Nostalgia and yearning followed as she clicked on the light.
    Halters and bridles, neatly coiled, hung from hooks along one wall. On the other, saddles of various sizes rested on their racks.
    How often had she come running in here, quickly grabbed a halter, then headed out to get her horse? It didn’t matter how many hours she had been riding the day before, how many figure-eight patterns she had gone through, how sore she was. Every time she stepped in here, anticipation washed over her.
    She pulled a halter off a hook, then found the bridle and saddle Monty had had custom made for her. She ran her hands over the stamping on the cantle, almost worn from years of riding. How many competitions had she ridden in with this saddle under her?
    She’d never won very many, but had loved participating. Flying around the arena on Rowdy, reins threaded through her hands, leaning into turns, had made Heather feel fully alive. Barrel racing was the one thing in her life that had given her purpose.
    She slung the halter over her shoulder, hooked the bridle on the horn, heaved the saddle and the blanket underneath it off the rack and carried everything outside.
    â€œYou stay, Sugar,” she said to the dog as she set the saddle on the hitching rail by